Trip The Light
by Ennui Enigma
Summary: "A solemn hallow echoing of his voice was the lone reply. He sighed. This wasn't the first time he'd found himself alone and stranded in some strange part of the city wondering where he was after a frantic chase for an elusive clue. Was it worth it?" One-shot inspired by the song, 'Trip the Light'. Dedicated to I'm Nova.


**A/N:** **Dedicated to friendships around the world. There are no words that can express what a true friendship brings to the lonely soul… intangible and yet so real that it can be felt with every fibre of the psyche.**

 **Prompt based on a suggestion by I'm Nova who mentioned a Tumblr challenge on Let's Write Sherlock that included using a song as an inspiration for a story. There is a YouTube video that celebrates our connected humanity set to the song, Trip the Light. (Music by Garry Schyman & lyrics by Alicia Lemke and Matt Harding).**

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The stars in the chocolate haze of London's darkening fog careened sideways as John Watson stopped, breathless on the street corner. He felt the pavement under his feet wobble like waves of the ocean. "Sherlock, wait!" he shouted in the direction he'd seen his flatmate's shadow disappear, swallowed up in the thick mist and deepening night.

A solemn hallow echoing of his voice was the lone reply. He sighed. This wasn't the first time he'd found himself alone and stranded in some strange part of the city wondering where he was after a frantic chase for an elusive clue. Was it worth it?

His mind flashed back to that first day in 221B when the budding consulting detective bounded down the steps intent on a serial murderer. Clearly he was excited. A bit overly enthusiastic, perhaps? But then the slender man, equipped for the chase in scarf and wool coat, came back.

"Could be dangerous." Sherlock's nose poked back into the flat and twinkling blue orbs blinked an expectant invitation. He held the door, waiting, as if he already knew.

How could John refuse? Sherlock was correct in his deductions (as usual). John was attracted to danger. Hell, even Mycroft had hit a note of truth when he'd pointed out that the ex-army man was not traumatized by the war but rather missed the war, at least, the thrill that came from living each moment as if it really counted, on edge, appreciating every breath knowing it might be your last. Living precariously, but living, really living.

Danger, the adrenaline pumping through one's veins and filling one's muscles with energy and brain cells with a heightened alertness, had a way of making him appreciate the moment. It was addicting. He craved it. He needed it in order to feel complete. Without danger, life didn't seem to matter. It lost all vibrancy. Without the sharp claws of near-death scraping his limits and threatening his existence, he had a difficult time finding that reason for living. Life needed more than the mundane activity of breathing; real living needed the breath-taking moments too.

The fog rolled in thicker and the blackness of the night settled heavily upon John as he gathered his thoughts together at the intersection. The ground came to a rolling stop under his feet and the stars halted in their sideways slippage through his oxygen-deprived vision as he rested. John breathed in the miasma in controlled deep inhalations and exhalations. He felt his heart, surging under his chest, slow to a steadying rhythmic pulse. Although he couldn't see Sherlock, he could sense his existence. Medically, he couldn't explain it. Somehow, after countless chases, endless nights, there was an inexplicable connection that defied physics. Perhaps it was love. Love, the one force in the universe that wasn't confined to the mathematical laws of physics. It crossed time and space without boundaries.

An inner flame fluttered in his chest. A warmth that went beyond his recent adrenaline rush. He'd come to recognise it as that raw intangible ember of their relationship. It flickered and crackled in existence, at times gleaming red hot and at other times hovering in muted hues of warmth. Their relationship was deeper than words could explain. Certainly, on the surface, there was a comfort, like a soft familiar blanket that enveloped whenever the cold realities struck down his expectations. The ember was bigger than just a comfort blanket though. Sometimes it was more like an anchoring rock. Solid and unrelenting in its protection. When the ember glowed, the light illuminated their individual potentials and talents. It was a light that shone upon the other's accomplishments and highlighted their valuable attributes. And yet, none of these analogies were fully satisfying. Their relationship was more.

John plugged the coordinates into his phone for James Phillimore's address. Sherlock's labyrinth route might confuse John's innate sense of direction but thankfully the GPS in his mobile was never confused as long as service was available. Mr Phillimore had been last seen entering his house to fetch a forgotten umbrella, never to be seen again. John was sure that wherever Sherlock's chase might lead, he'd be back at the missing man's house again. The last place the man was seen must contain the clues to his disappearance. John trotted west, in the direction of Phillimore's house. His was a strange disappearance. Mr James Phillimore simply vanished into thin air. He wondered if the man had a friend. A real friend. A best friend.

His mind drifted back to the time when John had asked Sherlock to be best man at his wedding. "Yes, of course, you're my best friend," he'd gazed over at Sherlock, taking a sip of his coffee, while the man was busy examining a lone eyeball. Gradually the reality of John's words dawned upon the younger man. The ball dropped, or, in this case, the dissected eyeball kerplunked into his teacup. Sherlock, the man who always had something to say, was stunned speechless. Mute surpise. It had been a bit of shock to John to realise how truly astonished Sherlock was at such a pronouncement.

John nodded his confirmation, several times. It was true. Kinda sad that this incredibly intelligent genius was so alone in his mind palace that he hadn't ever realised how much his life could mean to another human being. He had a brain attic stocked with facts and figures but devoid of that emotional IQ to cue him into his value as John's best friend. A man valued for his brain but never his heart. John flipped the tables and tripped the light that day. He broke the night and helped Sherlock see with new eyes. Together, two lost souls were finding their way home.

Eventually Sherlock came out of his catatonic shocked state and regained his ability to speak. His eyes blinked. Eyebrows twitched. "Ah, um, well, yes, of course, I'll be your best man," the genius had stuttered.

"You'll be expected to give a speech," John had explained.

He'd worked on it for weeks. In true Sherlock fashion, it was unforgettable. Even his enemies would give him that. John would never forget it. Well, none of the guests were likely to forget it actually. It was memorable.

John reached James Phillimore's house and entered. He noted the missing umbrella from the corner by the coat hanger. There was a coffee cup stain over by the hallway table where the housekeeper placed the incoming mail. Outside a few bills and a magazine advertising the latest gardening equipment, there were no personal communications. The walls were adorned with tastefully chosen paintings in hues compatible with the drapes and furniture décor. Nice. But there were no family photos. No personal souvenirs or mementos could be found in the house. It felt sterile. Lonely.

"I haven't seen him since yesterday," the landlady explained with a shrug. "He didn't have any friends or family that I know of, none that he ever mentioned at least. He was a private man and kept to himself as far as I know." She didn't express any emotion, just a rehash of the facts.

James Phillimore had gone back to collect his umbrella and disappeared without a trace. No one had a clue where he might have gone. The only reason the incident had been reported to the police was because the cabbie had grown tired waiting for Mr Phillimore in the taxi and wanted his fare paid.

Poor man. Tragic. John shivered. He thought about their own flat. It wasn't exactly neat and tidy in spite of Mrs Hudson's efforts. Sort of a comfortable clutter with Sherlock's "eloquent dust" decorating their piles and furniture. It wasn't sterile or lonely though. It was full of life. It was lived in by two men who found a mutual friendship. Out of their unlikely connection a symbiosis that was greater than either of them alone had been birthed.

A clatter of stomping boots on the doorstep signalled that Sherlock had returned from his chase. "Did you find anything?"

Sherlock rubbed his hands together. "Maybe. Several possibilities present themselves." His keen gaze took in their surroundings. With the expert efficiency of years of practise, Sherlock completed his survey of Phillimore's residence. "I think we've gained all that can be found in this place," he'd pronounced at last.

John smiled as he looked over at the expectant detective. How could he tell the man how much he meant to him? How could he ever express with meagre words how much he'd enriched his life, brought meaning and hope into his life, flipped his world upside down with more than just an invitation to tempt the danger? How could he express his gratitude for the way Sherlock completed him? Without being anymore than simply himself, Sherlock had altered the course of John's life forever. Saved him, really. Tripped the light in such a way that it danced sideways and dispelled his darkness and broke the night. How could he communicate this to Sherlock next to him now?

His heart surged with inexplicable peace and gratitude. Words could never be adequate. So instead, he simply invited, "Dinner?"

The tall genius quirked a playful eyebrow and twinkling eye in his direction. "Could be dangerous."

"Only if you're cooking," John smirked.

~221b~

 _We're gonna trip the light_

 _We're gonna break the night_

 _And we'll see with new eyes_

 _When we trip the light_


End file.
